Dew

Footsteps. He stirred in his sleep. Motes danced in circles. Peaceful. Austere. Outside the tent, the air was balmy. This was before the Royal Summoning. After the Summons, the stillness would give way to the usual restlessness associated with daybreak.

Not a soul was stirring. Save for the maker of the footsteps. Yeah. It was his job. He didn't really know anything else. How long had he been at this ? A billion years ? Since the beginning of time itself.

He still slept. His face wore a look , not really of innocence. Innocuousness would be more apt. A very self absorbed look. One which radiated out signs of some unknown peace. A peace , though. Isn't that what we all desire ? Inner peace ? Yes. It was some sort of peace.

Whether these eyes had beheld horrors , or this heart had felt pain, or his mild frame had undergone hardships, was inconclusive.

Footsteps. He stirred again. Footsteps grew louder. More stirring. Footsteps entered his tent. For a moment it felt like someone had turned on all the floodlights in the Stade de France. Wattage in billions , for a fraction of a second. Not like a flash. Try to imagine. The atmosphere was electrifying. But only for that moment. Then it was all gone. Footsteps, and all.

His eyes opened after a few moments. Clear black eyes.

Isn't this the time you said you would be closest to me ?
Isn't this the time you said I'd be rewarded for every tear I shed ?
Isn't this the time you said you'd touch me ?
Love like I'd never known what love is.
Glory beyond glory. Love and glory.
Isn't this when you said your thick shroud would be like a veil of muslin ?

You beckon.